Times Two
by hiddenmoments
Summary: Two heads are better than one, just like two hearts will go further and fight harder than one will be able to alone. Don, Ian and the unpleasant reality of more than one mistake. Two parts, post One Mistake.
1. Chapter 1

_**Not mine, again. No one in their right mind would actually let me have characters.**_

_i._

The descent into awareness happens anything but slowly, nothing approaching gentle, and ends with a spine-tingling jolt as his eyes fly open. He vomits bile and blood and hears bitter laughter somewhere in the haze. (_sorry mom I hope that wasn't your shoes again but you know how bad I am with anaesthetic_) Even ingrained and second-nature instincts like observation fall by the wayside when coming out of drug-addled hazes like this. (_whoever made the call on drugging me is going to get a knee to the kidney fair treatment be damned_)

There's very little to observe anyway, he finds after a few moments, because either his eyes still aren't working or he's in pitch darkness. His head throbs like someone's taken to it with a baseball bat and there is something sticky parting his hair at the back of his skull. (_for hours_ _mom yelled at me for not wearing a helmet_)

It takes a little while for his senses to come back and resemble anything approaching functioning. It has always been like this with anaesthetic, anything that sedates him. All he can do is wait for it to pass and hope that when his ears stop ringing he can hear again.

Deep, even breathing is somewhere nearby and he uses his arms to slide backwards. A quiet curse escapes him as the rope binding his wrists catches on something sharp and snags, jarring his entire body painfully. He rolls and his back crashes against a solid surface and then it is only a matter of seconds before his knees are up to his chest and he snaps off a demand to know what is going on. (_you can't try and use your FBI voice on me Donnie that's cheating now get out of the way and let me see or I'll tickle your hands_)

A voice that sounds like gravel, rough and unpleasant, bites out an order to stay where he is and shut up unless he feels like being drugged again. He takes a deep breath, dragging air into his quivering lungs and stills against whatever it is that he's managed to get his back to. (_what the hell is happening here_) The voice must come from the air around him, he can't even see a line of light under a door and the thought is completely preposterous because he had to have gotten in there somehow.

It takes a little while but eventually his ears are working (_like under water god I hate being drugged_) again and the breathing is changing, becoming shallower and quicker. It sounds like whoever was unfortunate enough to get themselves stuck here with him is waking up. (_did they grab someone else or am I just imagining things_) Lowering his knees, he reaches out tentatively and tries to gauge where the person is. It's his responsibility to make sure no other innocents are caught up in whatever the hell this is and the purpose is stronger than the nausea.

A sharp intake of breath sounds before he manages to find anything and the rustle as a body rolls over quickly is all the warning he has before a stream of obscenities split the silence and light spills over everything. (_holy hell what Ian where why oh shit_) The familiar figure of the sniper is similarly bound, hunched half on his knees, half braced with his forearms and breath seizes in Don's chest.

The gravelly voice cracks like a whip, sharp instead of rough this time, and there's nowhere to go as shadows block out the light. He fights (_you never did learn when to pick your battles Eppes_) and thinks that maybe he lands his knees in someone's groin. He really hopes he did as he hears Ian's pained breathing. (_you'll pay you will I promise_)

Hard, cool metal bites into his wrists as he's hauled, still unsteady, to his feet. His memory is clearing but he doesn't know where the others aside from Ian are (_the bust nothing ever went that wrong ever before there's no precedent what do I do now_) and panic tightens his throat as his legs firm slightly underneath him. He calls out the sniper's name (_Ian goddammit answer me_) and receives nothing but a backhand across the face and vision that swims again for his trouble.

Wrenching against the cuffs is a bad enough idea that he doesn't bother trying while he blinks away the white spots in his eyes and stumbles along docilely enough while rage sets every cell in his body alight. (_there you go Petey finally learning to pick my moment_) He tries, strains, forces his every sense to try and get enough of a picture of his situation to get out. A sudden horrible thought makes his knees give a little and the only thing that keeps him upright is the surge of fury and bite of the cuffs around his wrists.

(_if you hurt my team I am not even going to bother to make it look like an accident_)

The only sound as they walk down a corridor that seems to never end is the quiet pad of feet against concrete and shallow, panting breathing and soft curses that make him think of the academy at Quantico, the crack of rifle fire, long days and nights in the wild and comfortable silence. He almost smiles but it turns into a snarl, a desperate gnash of teeth as the cuffs tear into his skin when he is shoved around a corner into another corridor he can't even take in before his vision swims again.

A solid hand connects with the back of his head and he snarls properly as it lands against broken skin and bruised flesh that sends a rush of pain through his entire body. (_I am going to do to you everything they taught us not to do_) His vision is dim enough considering the substandard lighting and these constant blows are making it even harder to concentrate.

The gravel voice laughs at him, a bitter, unhappy sound, (_laugh now just see what kind of sounds you make when I get my hands around your throat_) and tells him that there are only two of them and four opponents and does he really think fighting is going to do any good?

He snaps off that he'd like to see those odds again in a fair fight without the use of chloroform. (_really really really really hate sedatives_) That doesn't seem to cause a reaction in the man he's dubbed Gravel because there is silence as they continue moving.

When they halt all of a sudden his knees aren't beneath him anymore, they're hitting the concrete with a sickening thud, his arm is up behind his back and bones aren't supposed to bend that way. (_broken wrist leg clavicle concussion and a summer without touching bat or gloves_) Breathing takes a back seat to swallowing a scream of agony as his lip splits beneath his teeth.

(_reckon you can twist these odds for me Charlie I could really use it right now_)

All he knows for sure through the haze of repeated blows and all-consuming blurs spinning past his eyes are the brief glimpses he gets of Ian's steely eyes from a few metres away that promise him nothing other than that he won't leave him willingly.

It isn't much, but gives him strength enough to spit the blood in his mouth at the man's face when he bends close to ask how the chloroform sounds now.

(_it sounds marvellous, scum_)

_ii._

His entire body is a throbbing ache. (_toothache appendix broken bones a knife in the chest has nothing on this_)

There have been three more chloroform doses that he remembers since the van and the stone walls do no favours for the smell of stale vomit. He supposes he should be grateful that they remember to leave food and water sometimes otherwise he might have vomited out organs instead of mostly bile.

Ian's eyes are softer when there is no one else there and they provide pinpricks of hope in the dim light while he slumps against the walls and doesn't even bother fighting his bindings any more.

The steely eyes and low even voice that are gradually becoming their own distinct entities do what they can to steady his world when it tips on its axis. (_Ian's here too remember he has to watch what they do to you_) Ian tells him that Gravel and his cohorts will have the not inconsiderable wrath of every law enforcement agency in LA to contend with because the abduction and assault of two federal agents and attempted murder of four more (_Colby Liz Nikki David they're still alive it's okay they aren't here to see this_) will have put them on every radar in existence.

He isn't sure but he thinks he believes Ian when he says that the others are okay. They had cover and each other and that might have been enough. He and Ian were the ones who made the mistakes.

(_Colby will break your fingers and Liz will make you eat your own eyes_) Laughter bubbles from his throat sometimes and he can't control it.

He croaks out the Ian's name when he can, to reassure himself (_reassure us both_) that he isn't alone in the dark when shadows creep in the corners of his eyes and he loses feeling in his hands from where they're pressed against the cool stone.

Eventually he manages to roll and crawl and drag himself across the room and stop, breathing hard and tasting blood, against long, bent legs. Still bound hands explore tentatively and strong, callused fingers find them, squeeze in response, as the voice, Ian, says his name (_I can't forget my name I can't I can't I can't I can't_) calmly and apologises for not being able to come across himself but his ankle is bound to the wall.

A bitter, wet laugh escapes his throat because his legs have been unbound for what might be days but then again it isn't as though he's much of a threat at the moment. (_harmless hapless helpless hopeless_)

The voice (_Ian is the only link home_) doesn't make any promises, which he appreciates. He knows it (_tone pace modulation every last inflection_) too well to not be able to tell truth from lies and he knows that any promises (_not the one where he'll stay, watch, keep hold of sanity, that one he'll keep_) will be lies.

_iii._

The lines between reality and nightmares keep blurring and he wakes screaming, trembling, coughing, (_don't sleep don't let them get you_) and Ian's voice is calm and steady from somewhere above him as fingers that have saved his life more times than he can count twist in his hair and ghost across his neck.

Blood and vomit and fear are all he can smell in the prison of stone but he can hear enough (_please don't stop talking Ian_) that hope isn't entirely gone as fingers squeeze his face painfully.

Still there, hope is still there when he hears the thudding heart that matches his because two is much better than one.

* * *

_**Part II isn't far behind.**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Part II**_

_i._

Time since he woke up and heard Don shouting his name, sounding painfully far away, has passed in a way that he can't even explain. All he can do is watch and make sure that there is something for the other man to hold onto while they attempt to systematically reduce both he and Don to gibbering, sobbing wrecks. (_you can try as hard as you like it isn't going to work_)

They don't give them the satisfaction and there is a slow burning pride in the pit of his stomach that starts when the man drags Don's throat back to hiss something about chloroform and white teeth flash as blood meets the skin of his face.

He thinks that it might have been a week already the first time he talks about the others. Don's breathing is wet and raspy and he's shivering and the last thing Ian wants to think about is what will happen if they get sick from the ice cold stone.

(_Colby and Nikki and Liz and David are going to find us I promise they had cover they're okay they're going to find us and make these animals wish that they'd died at birth_)

He keeps talking about how the net would be closing in because you don't abduct two federal agents, shoot at four more and get away with it. He chuckles darkly around a mouthful of cloudy water and when he's swallowed he points out that Colby and Liz will make the man with the gravelly voice wish that he'd never even been born.

Don's bubbling laughter has a distinct rasp and he's glad he can't read minds because the eyes he knows so well are glassy and fever bright. (_soon soon soon soon please soon_)

_ii._

He knows that his days are clearer than Don's. Sometimes he thinks that maybe he can even tell when it might be night outside (_away from wherever this is_) but not Don, Don has lost any perception of time or space in this hell already.

Dark eyes are vacant and pleading when they manage to meet his. Sometimes he pretends that they're in Virginia and all that's wrong is too much whiskey. (_familiar problem because you always tried to match me drink for drink, Eppes_) It only lasts until the door swings open again and light blinds his sore eyes and reality hits him like another pair of fists. (_that happens too much now_)

Words spill from his lips over and over again and he doesn't know what he says but it makes the fists angry and there are always screams when what might be night comes. He doesn't know if they're from him and that thought is full of unbridled terror.

The fists bring knives and split skin like soft butter and a voice screams protests that might be his own. He waits and waits and waits and waits for them to leave so his eyes can find Don.

There are bruises and cuts and puddles of oozing red that make his blood boil when there's light enough to see them. So much damage has been inflicted that they don't even bother binding the battered legs.

(_not like he could run not like he could do anything but spit in your face again god I hope blood in your eyes annoys you_)

The confusion and anger of the first stage pass quickly but the hope that help is coming is more stubborn. It lingers and lingers and when Don wakes screaming he closes his eyes and wonders if the stale air will send them home.

(_screaming for Colby for Liz for Alan for Charlie it becomes endless endless endless endless_)

Sometimes the stench of the chloroform they keep using knocks him out as well. He doesn't vomit though, has always handled anaesthesia better than most even though he hates it. His fingers tangle in sweaty hair while the other man heaves against his legs and he tries not to gag as bile turns the air from stale to rancid.

Time passes when he wishes he saw what happened when they were taken. His mind conjures up images of spiral-curls and sleek ponytails flashing amidst the gunfire, the shine of the sun off clean-shaven dark skin and the burning fire (_desperation because Colby will still be looking even if the others aren't_) in dark green eyes.

The images keep his mask in place as the gravel voiced man slowly robs them (_he steals Don's dignity and my sanity_) of what little they have left.

_iii._

The faces and voices start rotating after one man tries to take torture too far and not even shackles and near debilitating injuries save him from dual assaults. Don is unconscious for what might be three days afterwards but not Ian, he stands watch like a stone-clad sentinel. (_waking_ _dreams about mountain air and Quantico and the taste of whiskey on lips_)

He traces names, words, pictures, against the stone floor to remind himself that there is a world outside of these walls. A world where justice exists even if it doesn't always triumph. His mind suggests that maybe, just maybe, this is justice for things they've done even in the name of justice.

(_Buck Winters_)

The next face that appears and crouches down beside him, a finger tracing his jaw and all pleasant smiles, (_snarling biting gnashing teeth teeth teeth teeth_) is greeted by the crown of his head and a guttural, anguished cry because even his days are blurring as sanity fades from the foreground.

(_we are animals animals animals animals_)

_iv._

Clarity returns as faces swim in his vision and voices are quiet but they can't escape a hunter's ears.

The voices are confused and angry. Why aren't they docile yet, how is it even possible that they haven't been broken and what are they even fighting for, their friends have stopped looking for them. There is smug certainty in the voices and fury bubbles thick and fast in his blood but he can't move, can't shout, can't tell them just how wrong they are.

Cloth cuts into the corners of his mouth and even his partner is bound again. (_not so silly now can see lucid gleam plan again when did he wake up like that_)

The voices and hands leave eventually and he pants around the cloth as adrenaline leaves his body in a flood. Don talks now, crawling across the stone to take his place by his side as sentinel while clarity slips away to dance just out of reach.

(_two can last like one never could just like we always knew even if we never say it out loud_)

* * *

_**A little more like Eighty Days than the last one and shorter than Don's, but there we go! Don and Ian and their maybe not-so-slow slip from conventional sanity. I hope it doesn't disappoint! The next one is causing me a bit of trouble but most is done, just some tweaking and hoping that it comes out how I want it to. Called **Three Almosts_,_** team-centric mostly and follows their attempts to try and get the guys back. Between this and that is another one,** Weak Kneed**,**** that spawned randomly earlier today. It's been kind of odd to get out of Don and Ian's heads and back into something more functioning.**_


End file.
